


False King I

by bulgarianmobsterjerseytrashpieceofshit



Series: False King [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Dream Pack, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, bulgarian mobster, false king, introductions, kavinsky - Freeform, oleksy prokopenko, piece of shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 10:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11803962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulgarianmobsterjerseytrashpieceofshit/pseuds/bulgarianmobsterjerseytrashpieceofshit
Summary: Joseph Kavinsky is a sad, lonely boy.No, that's not entirely true.He is a lonely boy.But he is also destructive, cruel, and methodical.This is a depiction of how he acquires the boys that he runs with.His Dream Pack.Starting with one very special.One very alive.Oleksy Prokopenko.





	False King I

**Author's Note:**

> There will eventually be potentially triggering material in these posts.  
> From non-con, grotesque displays of abuse, physical violence, and other...  
> Not so easily handled material.

Often leaders are best regarded for their infamy or charity. For their alignment and focus. Lawfully good. Chaotic evil. A road to ruin paved by the intentions of good. The accidental fortune as a side effect of something more gray in morals and execution. Perspectives often boisterously and vehemently decided by outsiders never fully aware of a leader's intentions—defended or assaulted until every angle but the inside had been worked over. Sometimes men lead from the front. Sometimes they were simply figureheads to inspire moral.

Joseph Kavinsky, a New Jersey import armed with jagged edges and a loose set of morals, could be classified as nothing more than chaos incarnate. Abdicating throne and crown all at once.  
His kingdom was not so much conducted in the red yellow green glow of a traffic light, but in the black place just outside of the glow.  
And it stretched beyond that too, when the Bulgarian mobster's son was not lovingly cradled amidst the black leather interior of his snarling white Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution. Like his father, Kavinsky had picked up a valuable trade, If not completely violent and illegal. More specifically, he dealt in entertainment the same way that kids did at raves or parties. Drugs—special drugs—and alcohol were most namely his wares, but there were other things he could procure given and time and ample funds.

Joseph Kavinsky was the best forger Henrietta had ever known. Because of his invaluable ability to acquire things that people wanted and needed, his poor attitude and the accompanying bad manners were merely an obstacle to get around for people that wanted what he had for sale. Or trade.

Considering himself a god amongst men, he often found himself set apart from people at his substance parties, mingling but never quite lingering long enough to let himself be known as anything but a mean spirited adrenaline addict. It was easy to keep a detached sort of distance when he was high, not that he'd ever been particularly remarkable at establishing lasting relationships to begin with even when he was sober. The drugs just made him more amiable, vicious but amiable.

Wandering around the crowds of people snatching at half empty beer bottles to down the remainders of their contents, or doling out drugs like the Candyman himself, it had been by complete accident that he happened upon one Oleksy Prokopenko. The boy was a gangly, pale thing with a slight hunch to one shoulder that made them set uneven, and ears that could have given Dumbo a run for his money. The feeling or loneliness—even despite the very obvious mixture of drugs and alcohol making themselves present in those large doe eyes, and the crowd of people Prokopenko had surrounded himself in—rolled off of him like tongues of flame. Maybe Kavinsky was a moth. Maybe he was a bucket of water preparing to douse those fucking flames. Cradling a bottle of beer his side, its contents long since gone tepid in the humid atmosphere of a very large very abandoned house somewhere outside of Henrietta, Kavinsky kept a fair enough distance from the laughter and jeering of that group. Even despite the unintentional draw of his drug-blackened eyes toward the unusual looking Prokopenko, he was preparing to depart from that same spot he'd settled in for a minute too long and continue his wandering.

Unfortunately his legs and his brain were at odds, because as he started to move, he moved right through the mass and stopped just before Prokopenko. Their eyes met and something akin to familiarity seemed to spark within Proko's eyes. Did he know Joseph Kavinsky? No. But he knew of him. And with that proximity, he wanted to get to know him too.

Kavinsky lifted his free hand. It was balled into a tight fist, but as he unfurled his index finger and thumb, a small baggy seemed to poke out of the space left open. Further drawing Prokopenko's dozed attention. Prokopenko got to his feet as if he'd been tugged by some invisible leash when Kavinsky took a step back. And he took another to follow when Kavinsky took another. Prokopenko was only dimly aware of the fact that there were still people around him, cognizant of that fact only because he could feel the roiling of bodies and the whisper of humidity, everything else was pure unadulterated electricity.

Until that moment crumbled into a million pieces as a set of heavy hands caught on Prokopenko's uneven shoulders, jostling him out of Kavinsky's viper-like trance. “Hey bo' where y' goin'? We ain't done with you yet.” The jock was sloshed to high hell, and significantly stronger than that string-bean figure of Prokopenko. It didn't seem to matter though because he did not have a chance to comment back.

Time slowed down as a fist collided with the jock's face, and Kavinsky was there only inches away from Prokopenko. He could not tell where pupil stopped and limbal ring started, but he could see the cold fury like a barely contained hurricane. Compromised, Prokopenko's every strung out emotion was compromised by this hooded-eyed skinny prick in a white tanktop. “Move.” Kavinsky growled, the note reverberated within Prokopenko like those slowly drawl of a bow across the strings of a concert bass. But Prokopenko moved obediently. And he swung around just in time to way the two bodies collide. He wasn't certain the physics of the situation made any sense, but then he wasn't certain if anything made any sense in that moment because his heart was simultaneously in his chest and in his throat pounding out a beat so violent it made his skin slick with beads of sweat. Pounding out the same beat that Joseph Kavinsky's fists were making as they landed multiple blows upon the bloodied visage of his attacker... No, not attacker. The jock hadn't meant anything by his actions, he probably hadn't even seen Kavinsky standing there when Oleksy had gotten up. He probably would not see ever again.

Relinquishing a breath when Kavinsky finally shoved off of that bigger boy, Prokopenko's jaw hung open and he stared. “Tryin' to catch flies, my guy?” A bloodied finger slipped beneath his jaw and snapped Prokopenko's mouth shut with a painful click. Fumbling for words, Kavinsky was already starting to go, but he tilted his head just enough to tell Proko that he was listening. That he expected him to follow. And so he did.

“Gotta admit, words 're hard.” That Jersey drawl rattled him to the very core as Kavinsky spoke and sneered, groping through the pockets of his tattered pants to produce a hard pack of cigarettes. Pressing one between his lips, he offered one to Prokopenko as the boy caught up. He did not thank Kavinsky, he didn't think that the violent boy wanted to be thanked. And he certainly didn't deserve to be thanked, it wasn't like the jock had hurt him in any way. “Uh, so where are we going anyway?” Oleksy finally found his voice, his liquid smooth voice made sluggish by his substance cocktail. When Kavinsky turned his gaze toward him, it was only then that he'd noticed the splotchy, black and purple pattern over his dark eyes. It hadn't been there before—or maybe it had, he just hadn't seen it because he was too transfixed with the appearance of the forger to realize any of the finer details. “What happened to your face?” It slipped out before Oleksy could stop himself and it earned him a flash of pearly teeth and a grin that looked so jagged and dangerous, if he weren't careful he might slip and slice his throat on it. “Your mama showed me a good time last night, didn't think she was as ticklish as she was though.” This statement confused Oleksy though, because his mother was nowhere near Virginia. It didn't seem to matter though because Kavinsky only fixed him with an amused look and lit the cigarette Prokopenko had unwittingly slipped between his lips.

With only a look, Prokopenko knew to fold himself into the passenger seat of the Mitsubishi Evolution, stark white against the blackness of the night with a savage knife graphic haphazardly splayed out across both sides. At once the graphic looked languid and magical, its every edge was blurred and jagged just like the man who owned the vehicle. Sliding his seat belt across his chest and lap, Prokopenko had a sense that eyes were upon him. The same glittering black eyes of an opportunistic carrion bird just waiting for his pulse to flutter out. Contrary to the concern slowly gnawing its way through his gut, Prokopenko felt mostly safe. That is to say, about as safe as one could with a loaded gun pointed at their temple. Maybe Kavinsky saw that in the set of his countenance. Maybe that was what elicited a low rumble of a laugh and the faintest shaking of his head.

“What?” Oleksy dared to ask, turning his eyes to the bruised and battered hands still splashed with the jock's blood as they moved to neatly tuck a set of keys into the ignition. “Did I say anything?” Kavinsky leveled him with another gaze, he might not have ever removed it from him to begin with, but Prokopenko wasn't sure. His drug addled vision could only really focus on pieces of what was happening, not the entire picture.”No—not that I can recall.”

The interior of the vehicle pulsed to life with the snarling yawn of the Mitsubishi's engine, and Prokopenko was dimly aware of the fact that the orange light cast by their cigarettes was no contrasted by blue interior lights. Regarding the cigarette cradled in his palm, half burned already, he exhaled a quiet sound that was equal parts confused and grievous. “There's an entire pack of those things.” Kavinsky pointed out before he rolled the windows down and tapped the ash of his own just outside of the vehicle. “No need to lament what you can hardly remember.” He added with a flourish before stubbing the cigarette out upon the white paint just beside the window. It left a mean streak that the sharp boy either didn't notice or didn't care about. And when he flicked the half smoked, stubbed butt out the window, Kavinsky rolled his own back up and shifted his attention to driving.

“I'm Oleksy.” Prokopenko fumbled for something useful to say, which earned him an arched brow and a snarled smirk. “What the fuck kind of name is that?” Kavinsky crooned, collecting a pair of white-rimmed shades and depositing them upon his face before the car lurched from its spot in the shaggy grass. It was evening and this asshole was wearing sunglasses as black as his soul. “Uh, Polish I think.” He blinked four long, tired blinks and then turned his gaze outward to the world lit only by the xenon headlights of the Mitsubishi. “Prokopenko.” Kavinsky rolled the name off of his tongue. Somehow the low growl of his last name sent a shiver up and down his spine, seizing his breath and his heart in one go. “You knew?” Prokopenko kept his gaze forward. “Baby, I know everything.” Kavinsky answered with extra emphasis to that last word. “What do I call you?” Oleksy finally turned his eyes toward the other boy, only just realizing he hadn't put his seatbelt on. Death wish? “Your majesty. King. God. Take your pick.” His shoulders rolled into a languid shrug and Proko nodded. “What about Kavinsky?” This earned him a bark of laughter and a nod. “You're all right, Proko.”

Up until this point, Joseph Kavinsky had never had an inner circle. It wasn't even much of an inner circle, more of an inner line. He and a single other boy with a penchant for peculiarly violent proclivities. Drinking. Drugs. Breaking things and setting them on fire. And it wasn't so much of an inner line as it was a symbiotic—bordering parasitic—bond. One boy provided protection, drugs, and entertainment. The other provided an outlet for violent urges, sexual frustration, and experimental tests of the drugs to catalog symptoms and ensure there was nothing lethal about them. Oleksy Prokopenko had nearly died twice by accidental overdose and mixing drugs—even despite Kavinsky's warnings. Both times Kavinsky had somehow managed to pull him back from the brink of death.


End file.
